Feels like Saturday night San Pedro or Long Beach when I wake up: my ripped tongue thick with sea salt and diesel stink, eyes filled with yellow streetlight burlap sky. Rats gnawing ropes over by Terminal Way...
"...yellow streetlight burlap sky." ... "...ambulances come and go. And they’re not talking of Michelangelo" ... "paper bag wine" ... "my empty bottle anger " ... "Those last blood red drops drip from sad shards of myself. They slow crawl to the water like a stunted storm squall" Christ! Stunning!
lovely lyricism as always, how fresh and open you can make me feel even about such a distressing traumatic topic
Evocative, intense, challenging. I wish to support this. I would share it with others and raise money. Please get in touch.
Love the verse-prose hybrid, the broken lines followed by flowing thoughts. You do so much with plain words.
Victor, con esta historia me hiciste palpar una representación de la impotencia emocional. Una historia muy vívida.
I agree with Mike, palpable anger and resentment. You relate a powerful story in a free-form style that never seems like storytelling. Great writing, Victor.
So good! You delivered, yet again, Victor. By the way, I've really enjoyed "39 Boys on Ground".
This one feels so real; palpable anger and resentment. You pack a lot of feeling and character into this short piece. Great writing, inspiring. Thank you for the Tuesday morning jolt. Caffeine is now an afterthought ;-)